Vice
by TheVerbalThing ComesAndGoes
Summary: Sometimes, it just feels better to give in. Series of one-shots, with a "Seven Deadly Sins" kinda theme. Includes House/Cuddy and various others.
1. Envy

Vice-- a physical defect, flaw, or infirmity; a physical defect or weakness.

Disclaimer: is this really necessary?

Summary: Sometimes, it just feels better to give in. Series of one-shots, with a kinda "Seven Deadly Sins" theme.

Quote is from 2.03 (Humpty Dumpty)

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_-_

"_Why is he so curious about Cuddy?"_

"_Why are you so curious about his curiosity?"_

"_Why are you so curious about me being—"_

"_Because you dumped him. And you're married. And they are neither of those things."_

"_I'm just curious. Nothing wrong with that."_

"_No, nothing wrong with that."_

_-_

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_

**invidia**

She manages to catch the elevator just before the doors close. She steps inside the lift, tries and fails to hide her surprise upon see him standing there as the only occupant. He's leaning on the handle of his cane and whistling a song that she can't yet identify.

Stacy pushes the button for her floor, falters in her step as she stands beside him. The grin on his face is far too wide to not have any reason behind it. "What's got you so happy?"

"Nothing. I am not a happy person. Or did you forget?"

"You're smiling."

"Blasphemy," he accuses, and deliberately twists his mouth into a scowl.

"Fine, don't talk about it."

"Talk about what?"

"Whatever it is that's got you grinning like an idiot." She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, reaching over to adjust his shirt out of force of habit. She can't help slipping into her old role when she's around him. "Your collar's crooked."

There's a smudge of something on his collar but her mind doesn't let it wander to the possibility of it being anything other than ketchup. "Still not used to washing your own clothes?"

"Well, there was this one maid, Maria, but Wilson got a little jealous when he found us—"

"Shut up," she commands softly. Stacy steps off the elevator onto her floor, realizing that the song he was whistling was _"You Sexy Thing"_.

She catches Cuddy on her way to the clinic, just as she's pulling on her lab coat.

"Hey. You need something? Did House do something—?"

"No, nothing like that, just got some paperwork for you."

"Lisa, uh--your shirt's missing a button," Stacy informs her, pointing to the small inch of visible skin just above her belly button.

"What? Oh. I must have snagged it on...something." The excuse is flimsy and not at all believable, but Cuddy rushes out before Stacy can make any further comment. Strange, but she assures herself that it's nothing.

That is until later, when she makes the dreadful decision to go for the stairs instead of the elevator this time. She stops just short of the hallway, her curiosity preventing her from interrupting Lisa and Greg's conversation.

"Tell me again, exactly, what this little stunt is designed to do?" She's pushing a folder into his chest, all under the guise of handing over a case file.

"Stunt? What stunt?"

_Or, maybe_, Stacy thinks callously, _it isn't a guise. Maybe they can multitask._

It doesn't bother her that they used to know each other. It doesn't. Or, at least, it shouldn't.

What bothers her, truly and deeply, is not being aware of how far, exactly, that "knowledge" extends. Greg has never been the type to spout on and on about his feelings, but when it came to Lisa, he was especially tight-lipped. "We're friends," is all he would say. Nothing more, nothing less.

Stacy never admitted it, but it always irritated the hell out of her.

They don't touch and that's the reason she gives herself that it's not what it looks like. Can't be. But, the hallway they're meeting in is conveniently empty and rarely used by anyone other than patients.

"You owe me a button." Cuddy frowns, one hand on her hip and the other pressed flat against his chest. The action is far too personal and that's when Stacy thinks she starts to feel a little sick. "Is that my—what, you couldn't have worn a different shirt?"

"What? I thought you liked me in blue."

"I would _prefer_," she hisses, lowly, closing the small space between them, "if you could choose to wear a shirt that didn't still have my lipstick on the collar."

"It reminds me of you. Helps me get through the day." He's feigning sweetness and, even though they both know it, from the small smile creeping across Cuddy's face, it seems to be working.

Stacy feels something unsettling in the pit of her stomach, swallows back the lump in her throat. She walks back to the elevators, nearly breaking her finger as she pushes the up button.

_Damned curiosity_.

--


	2. Sloth

Vice -- depraved or degrading behavior

Summary: Sometimes it just feels better to give in. Series of oneshots, with a "Seven Deadly Sins" kinda theme.

Quote is from 3.19 (Act Your Age)

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"_So many people… So much energy and drama just trying to find someone who's almost never the right person anyway…It just—it shouldn't be so hard." _

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**socordia**

It's the rain, at first, that pulls him out of his sleep.

Pounding angrily against windows and doors, as thunder booms in the distance and lightening cackles, illuminating his bedroom and the pale, warm, body entwined with his in a temporary shade of purple. He's amazed by her ability to sleep through all this.

It's the rain that startles him, but it's her hands that keep him awake.

As is inevitable when sharing a bed, the concept of "sides" is ignored and he realizes that he is, quite simply, cuddling with her. His fingers are interlocked with hers, resting firmly and securely on top of her stomach. He shifts, feels her pulse pounding just beneath his fingertips and discovers that he doesn't mind the fact that they're holding hands, not really.

Fifteen minutes before her alarm is supposed to sound, she snuggles her head into his chest, one leg sliding between his. A rare moment of tranquility, and he doesn't want it ruined by the reality of pain and responsibilities or interrupted by any obligation.

It isn't easy, but every once in a while he manages to convince her to sleep in.

Of course, not five minutes after her alarm is safely turned off and he's finally drifting off to sleep, Cuddy starts to stir. She frowns, lips falling into a small pout as she perches on her elbows, and looks over at him, the sheet wrapped around her bare chest slipping dangerously low.

"What are you doing?"

"What's it look like?"

She glances over at the nightstand then back at him, her frown deepening. "You turned my alarm off," she states accusingly.

"Technically... _my_ clock, _my_ alarm. Sleep," he orders groggily. He tries to tug her back toward him by pulling his arm around her waist but she pushes against his chest when she falls onto his lap, rebuffing his attempts to coax her back to dreamland.

"House—"

"It's seven AM on a Sunday. Sleep."

"I have a meeting—"

"At 12:30. Last I checked it doesn't take you four hours to get dressed. Even_ if _you include underwear."

"House, you can't just—"

He ignores her, grabbing her gesturing hands and holding them still. Instead of speaking, he cuts her off with a kiss that is everything but chaste. "You work too much. Sleep."

She's smiling when he pulls back and runs the pads of her fingers lightly across his throat. She kisses him briefly, then pokes her finger squarely in the middle of his chest.

"Don't expect that to work all the time."

--


	3. Gluttony

Vice — a slight personal failing; a foible

Summary: Sometimes it just feels better to give in. Series of one-shots, with a "Seven Deadly Sins" kinda theme.

Quote is from 1.01 (Pilot)

* * *

"..._But you are damaged, aren't you?"_

**

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**nimis (gula)**

For Cameron, indulgence is her own personal privilege.

It's the reward she gives herself for days gone by without a slip up—meals of small portions, consisting of bite-sized dishes with the least amount of calories. At least, that is what she likes to allow herself to believe—that she's simply taking control of what she eats, when and how much; that after nearly starving herself for weeks she deserves a bowl of ice cream. Or two.

But, the truth is, she almost always cracks under the pressure. Food has become her master, and somehow without her knowledge has garnered the power to dictate her life.

She doesn't give in to whims, not usually. She knows from experience that the moment never lasts, and, more often than not she will only feel even emptier than before she started.

She used to be a little... fat. Nowhere near enough to be considered obese, but just enough to leave a mark, open up the door to a piece of herself that she didn't like, that was controlling to the point of obsessive.

Her mother will always fondly refer to them as her "Chubby Years"—a pre-pubescence filled with puffy cheeks and the slightest beginnings of a double chin. She could still keep up with the rest of the class during gym but Cameron hated the feeling of her thighs rubbing together as she ran. By ninth grade, that all sort of melted away but she would never forget how it made her feel. Imperfect, out of control. "Failure" seemed to be a fairly apt description.

Sometime earlier in the afternoon, Cindy, the woman who is no longer her patient- never was, technically- who she fought to have take precedence over a convicted ax murderer in the maze of House's games, who Cameron has visited regularly since her fatal diagnosis, died an agonizingly slow and painful death that comes with the end stages of lung cancer. And, against Wilson's advisement, Cameron stayed with her.

_It isn't worth it_, she reminds herself even as she reaches for the freezer door handle. She likes having at least one carton around, likes to reassure herself that she can resist the temptation. Although, usually, she can't. And she hates it.

_Mind over matter. Willpower over want._

She taps a spoon against her chin. She runs her fingers over the small design of flowers etched into the silver. It's an old relic from The Chubby Years.

_It's not worth it, _she repeats even as her hand wraps around the carton of Edy's Tin Roof Sundae, eager to rip open the lid and willing to risk frostbite.

This is one of the reasons why she shouldn't get attached to patients. Because, when they don't make it, she's the one who spends the night battling her childhood demons, sitting alone in the dark in her kitchen engorging herself on cholesterol-filled, chocolate chip, super fudge swirled ice cream. She takes it especially hard, noting it down as a personal failure.

_It isn't fair_, she thinks, _and Wilson was right_.

Her stomach lurches when her spoon knocks against the bottom of the carton, and she feels disappointment along with the nausea wash over her.

She trips over an empty box of doughnuts on her way to the bathroom, barely makes it to the toilet in time to empty out her stomach.

She spends the night curled up on the bathroom floor, trying to figure out how she got to this point.


	4. Wrath

Vice -- a flaw or imperfection; a defect

Summary: Sometimes, it just feels better to give in. Series of one-shots, with a "Seven Deadly Sins" kinda theme.

Quote is from 2.8 (The Mistake)

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--

_"You ok with your dad now?"_

_"No."_

**--**

**

* * *

****ira**

He hates that he still remembers this day.

After fifteen years, he should be free of this, it shouldn't still be a moment so fresh in his mind he can recall every second and every detail so vividly. He shouldn't still feel the resentment so strongly that it clouds his judgment and blurs his vision.

He's a big boy now, and shouldn't feel the need to mope and wallow simply because he can't stop reminding himself that this is the day his father left.

Chase cracks his knuckles, finding an odd source of relief in the action. He likes the sound, loves the feeling, and can always breathe a little easier once he's done.

It comforts him.

He pulls a bottle of beer from his fridge and takes a sip as his mind stews over memories that should have faded a long time ago.

He remembers coming home from school, sneakers crunching on broken glass, the strong and nearly acrid stench of vomit combined with alcohol assaulting his nostrils and making his stomach churn. He found his mother passed out on the bathroom floor, her face buried in the rug. He cleaned up the mess in the time it took her to wake up, only to have to deal with her recounting the details of his father's departure through her tears.

It should have been a good day; he'd found out he'd made it into the top ten of his class, figured that maybe they could all go out to celebrate and that his mother could end the night sober, for once.

Chase stares at the calendar hanging on his wall as he drinks more of his beer. He thinks that maybe he should get rid of it. But, he knows that it wouldn't really make a difference, wouldn't change anything.

From that day on, the mound of crap formerly known as his neat little life had snowballed into the shit that he just couldn't handle.

He hates that he can still remember this day.

"Goddammit," he murmurs. The bottle is thrown at the wall before he even realizes what he's doing. He doesn't even flinch when it shatters into pieces.

The phone rings, and Chase rests his head in his hands for a moment before going to answer it.

He'll clean up the mess later.

--


	5. Pride

Vice -- a bad habit, a particular form of depravity

Summary: Sometimes, it just feels better to give in. Series of oneshots, with a "Seven Deadly Sins" kinda theme.

Quote is from 4.14 (Living the Dream)

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_"What about you? Are you happy?"_

_"Not particularly."_

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**superbia**

Before she lights up her Marlboro cigarette, Thirteen counts the sticks of gum she has left in her pocket, just to be sure she has enough.

Not that it matters; House will notice-- he always does-- and she doesn't exactly work with idiots. She isn't sure why she tries so hard to hide what she does. Pride, maybe. Or, embarrassment, possibly, because this, knowing about the disease, it does affect her, has affected her in spite of all her efforts to prove the contrary.

She closes her eyes a moment, inhaling cool air and early morning frost before giving in to the desire of a dose of nicotine. Most mornings, she goes in early about fifteen to twenty minutes before she's actually needed, just for this moment.

Lately, she's grown fond of the feeling of acting contradictorily, takes a perverse comfort in the irony of a doctor smoking on hospital grounds. Thirteen leans against the concrete edge of the building, keeping the exit-only door propped open with her foot and marveling that, for now, she can keep her balance, and she doesn't yet have to worry about spasms or quakes.

_But, eventually..._ She watches the embers from her cigarette fall into her cupped palm, fascinated.

"Smoking on the job?" Kutner stands in the small place between the toe of her shoe and the doorway, smiling that elusive smile of his, his eyes unreadable.

"Technically," she inhales again, "we're not on for another five minutes." He watches her blow a stream of smoke out into the wind, she doesn't pretend not to notice him. She doesn't feel the need to indulge in any false pretenses.

"You don't care if House bothers you mercilessly when you walk in smelling like smoke? He'll insist you're heading on another downward spiral..."

"I don't care what House does." Stringing those words together to form that sentence is deliberate. Because she does care. About a lot of things. It's just easier to pretend that she doesn't.

"Well, that's not entirely true, now is it."

They share a smile.

She offers him the cigarette straight from her lips, curious to see if he'd take it simply because she's the one giving it to him. She's pushing her boundaries, curious to see how far this might go.

"No, I'm good. Not really into the killing myself slowly bit." In the slightly awkward silence that follows that statement, she watches his mouth contort, watches his mind work frantically to cover his ass. She rests her hand on his arm, reassures him without words that it's okay.

Her mortality is something she doesn't want to discuss, doesn't want him to think he has to make her feel better. He doesn't need to try so hard.

"Yeah, I didn't think so. You don't seem like the type." She takes another drag from the cigarette, with him still watching, and she stomps it out under the heel of her shoe.

"How about a drink, then?"

He holds the door open as she walks through, maintaining eye contact and walking backwards. He grins. "Drinks, I can do."

--


	6. Greed

Vice -- an immoral habit or practice

Summary: Sometimes, it just feels better to give in. Series of one-shots, with a kinda "Seven Deadly Sins" theme.

Quote is from 5.15 (Unfaithful)

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_--_

"_Everything _could_ be good. Very little ever is."_

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**avarice**

He'd like to think that he's a changed man.

It'd be nice if he could reassure his wife that things from this point on will be different, without having to carefully construct a web of lies. But truthfully, _honestly_, he misses his old life.

Chris Taub is a man who lived the philosophy of "having your cake and eating it too" at every available opportunity.

He loves his wife, can't imagine what his life would be like without her, but a few years ago, he could have said the same thing about his career as a plastic surgeon. It isn't fair, he thinks, it isn't fair that he should be forced to give that up. It isn't _right._

He doubts that he would ever be able to admit it, but he knows that deep down a small part of him insists that if he ever had the chance to do it all again...he'd just try harder the next time not to get caught.

"Have a good day," Rachel wishes him sleepily. It's what she usually does each morning, before he heads out off to another day of unpredictability-- yet another piece of his old life he tries hard not to miss. Knowing how the day will go, what the end results will be, that at the end of the day, he would be the hero will have changed _some_one's life.

The patients he has now, more often than not, don't want change; they don't want total reconstruction in a single moment. More often than not, they do all that they can to avoid it. And, frankly, it baffles him.

Rachel kisses him sweetly, lovingly. It reminds him of why he still loves her: her unfailing faith. It's the same quality that makes him feel nearly sick from being such a hypocrite.

Taub wishes he could staunch the craving that still hangs over his head, that won't stop rearing its ugly head whenever he's drinking crappy hospital cafeteria coffee or his life is threatened by an insane, unruly patient.

He presses a small kiss to her forehead, then grabs his jacket. His hand on the doorknob, he sighs, takes a moment for himself. In his mind he relives the mistake he made that ruined everything, his times spent with the woman that brought him here; nothing about _her_ was small or sweet and he couldn't resist wanting more of every moment he spent with her. She was nothing like Rachel and he just…couldn't help himself.

He's always been terrible at resisting temptation.

Taub exhales the breath he'd been holding and closes the door softly behind him. He will always, _always,_ want more.

--


	7. Lust

Vice -- wicked conduct or habits; corruption.

Summary: Sometimes, it just feels better to give in.

Quote is from 3.19 (Act Your Age)

**A/N: **this one _might_ be a little out of character towards the end....then again, I could be wrong. You be the judge. And (as always) enjoy!

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"_Well, why can't it be October/October?"_

"_Because May is when things start to get hot."  
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_--  
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_**luxuria**

She strolls into his office without preamble, ignoring his team as they scamper off, without being told, to do their (and his) clinic hours.

"Insatiable," he murmurs.

The smile she gives him is quick and short lived, but there is something about the curve of her lip that leaves him wondering about all the things that could happen if only his office wasn't encased in glass. "Not here for that. Got a case for you."

He doesn't expend the effort by trying to mask his lustful gaze as he watches her move towards him, his eyes dropping below her neck and lingering on her hips. Cuddy leans across the edge of his desk, handing over a file that he won't even bother to pretend to read. "Twenty two year old male presenting with flu-like symptoms—"

"My guess is: _it's the flu_."

"The ER already ruled that out. _Plus_, he seems to have developed this tendency to bleed from every orifice every so often. So—"

"How can you _possibly_ expect me to concentrate on healing the sick and suffering with you… _leaning _like that?" He tilts his head to the side, finally bringing his eyes to hers. She's blushing; he smirks. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of making her blush.

It's especially difficult to concentrate, he thinks, because he can still vividly recall this morning: her walking around his apartment barefoot and only in her underwear, trying to find the right shirt to cover up the evidence of his stubble-burn on her skin.

She adjusts her stance so that he no longer has an all access pass to the marvels below her neckline and puts her hand on her hip. "Better?"

"Not at all. In fact, I think it might actually be worse." He stands and she watches with an eyebrow raised in mild interest as he moves so that he's looming over her.

"Now _this_," he replies, with his nose inches from hers, "this is much better."

"Patient?"

"Usually, no. And at this moment, definitely not."

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant. I was skillfully trying to change the subject."

"Well, I think your skills could use a refresher. Little rusty."

"You wound me," he pouts.

"I'm sure," she whispers, her eyes are now focused on his lips and he can feel the wisp of her breath on his skin. They're close, but he knows she won't go too far with him, not here.

Doesn't mean he can't still have a little fun.

"Seriously," he pauses, watching in avid interest as she moves to stand between his feet, her chest a mere breadth away from his. "I'm not sure I'll be able to get over it."

"I don't doubt that." She's tilting her head now, purposfully bumping her nose against his, as his hand comes to rest at the small of her back. He pulls her closer, but before their mouths can actually meet, slips a lollipop from his jacket pocket and tosses it in his mouth, effectively interrupting her attempts to kiss him.

"Tease," she murmurs. Unbidden, her lips turn downward into a small pout, which he finds more than amusing.

From the doorway, Chase clears his throat, a lazy and knowing grin on his face. "House, need a consult."

"No need. We've already got a case," House states abruptly, taking the file from between Cuddy's hands. He keeps his eyes focused on hers, waiting for her to start to fidget. She's always the first to crack.

She smiles before biting her lip, slowly, then snatching the dangling lollipop from his mouth.

"Hey!"

"Pretty sure you got this from _my _clinic," she responds haughtily and lets him make a grab for it before promptly putting it in her own mouth. She exits his office swiftly, both Chase and House watching after her ass while she walks away.

He limps over to Chase, who still has that stupid grin on his face, and hands him the case file, glaring. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

House forces his mouth into a scowl, pretending not to be elated at the idea of continuing their banter later tonight, without any interruptions. "And put your eyes back in your head."

Without intending to, they walk the difference back to the conference room side by side. House keeps his gaze straight ahead, knowing Chase's smile is still intact.

"So... you and Cuddy, huh?"

--


End file.
